


loss: interlude

by scripturience



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Oneshot, early-game spoilers, mild shulk/fiora if you squint, probably not an issue if you've played for more than 3 hours lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26294401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scripturience/pseuds/scripturience
Summary: Homs shouldn't have to live in fear, waiting around to be picked off by the Mechon. In the wake of tragedy, Shulk decides that it's time to do something about that.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	loss: interlude

**Author's Note:**

> i had to watch That cutscene sO many times as research pls enjoy my suffering :'')

“I’ll kill you!” Shulk’s scream reverberates around the warm brick of the Residential District as they stare up at the retreating figure of the metal-faced Mechon. Only a thin stream of blue light is visible as it jets away, and then that, too, fades, leaving Shulk, Reyn, and Dunban staring at an empty sky. 

An eerie stillness, thick and weighted, suffocates the area. Tiny embers drift towards the ground, their soft glow the remnants of buildings that had gone up in flames. Static buzzes in Shulk’s head, and he has the most peculiar sense of viewing the scene from outside himself: the Monado clutched limply in his hand as he leans heavily on Reyn, Dunban slack-jawed and immobile beside them. Behind them lies the mangled wreckage of the mobile artillery unit that had — seemingly only moments before — been piloted by Fiora. 

Fiora, who is now — 

Shulk tears away from Reyn. His feet make for the wreckage, a cry for Fiora tearing itself from his lips. His shoes slip in a pool of — blood, it’s  _ Fiora’s  _ blood, mixed with the ether that they had collected together only hours ago. He stumbles. Flings the Monado aside (it cannot help them, now). Scrambles up the side of the mobile artillery unit, hauls himself into the pilot seat, wild with impossible hope that Fiora will be curled up there, terrified but alive. 

It’s empty. 

Shulk’s heart plummets in his chest.

All that remains of Fiora are a few tattered scraps of fabric amongst a bright smear of blood. The dim glow of drifting embers glints off of Fiora’s butterfly clip, which lies discarded and bent on the cobblestones below. It was the one keepsake she had left of her mother; she never took it off, and protected it ferociously.

_ No _ . She can’t be — 

Strong arms haul him from the artillery unit. 

Reyn. 

Shulk twists in his grasp, clawing at the muscled arms that pin him to his friend’s side, but Reyn has always been taller, stronger, and it is a losing battle. 

“Shulk, man. C’mon. She’s — ” Tears slick Reyn’s face. Reyn, who always had an easy smile and a joke to defuse any situation. Reyn, who Shulk had only ever witnessed cry a handful of times in all their years of friendship. Reyn, in tears. 

“No!” It’s unthinkable. Fiora can’t be — 

A low murmur begins to build, barely audible beneath the roaring in Shulk’s ears. The disappearance of the Mechon — gone almost as suddenly as they’d arrived — has drawn people from their homes, tentatively clutching at each other and shooting fearful glances at the sky. A crowd has begun to gather around the wreckage, muted in horror as they piece together the pooling blood, the wrecked artillery unit, the distraught Shulk. 

“Reyn! Let me  _ go!  _ I have to — ” His words dissolve into broken sobs. 

“Come off it, man,” says Reyn, tightening his grip on Shulk. “There’s nothing you can do.” 

“Reyn. Let him go.” Dickson. When had he arrived? The Monado is slung over one shoulder — how long had he had it? 

Reluctantly, Reyn releases Shulk, who drops to the cobblestones. Their sharp edges dash his knees open, but he ignores the pain that flares as he staggers to his feet. Before he can take a step, however, Dickson clamps strong hands onto his shoulders, and steers Shulk away from the scene. 

“Don’t even think about it, kid.” 

“Dickson — ” 

“We’re taking you home.” 

Shulk makes to twist from Dickson’s grasp, but Dickson responds by scooping Shulk off his feet in one swift motion, hoisting him in his arms as though Shulk were an infant. “You ain’t running anywhere,” he says as he marches resolutely away from the wreckage, ignoring Shulk’s broken sobs and desperate pleas. 

They pause only once, as they pass by Dunban. Dickson slows and locks eyes with his fellow soldier. “She died an honourable death.” 

_ She shouldn’t have had to die at all, _ Shulk thinks. 

When they reach their home — miraculously untouched by the Mechon — Dickson shoulders the door open and drops Shulk into an empty chair. “We need to get those injuries patched up.” 

He leans the Monado against the wall and sets about locating their first-aid kit. 

_ Injuries?  _ Shulk hadn’t noticed. But a quick inspection reveals that his clothing hangs in tatters in places to display the bruises that blossom across his pale skin. There’s a wound on his shoulder that’s gluing the ragged edges of his shirt to his skin, and a graze skirts up his cheek. Blood drips into his eye from a gash above his eyebrow. He lets it. 

Dickson dumps the first-aid kit onto the table and pulls up a chair opposite Shulk. He dips a washcloth in a bowl of water and tenderly rinses the grime and the blood from Shulk’s face. As a child, Shulk hated the way Dickson would scrub smears of porridge from his cheeks, and he would squirm out of his foster father’s grasp. Now, despite himself, he finds it comforting. His eyelids flutter closed. The only sound is the soft rustle of Dickson’s clothing as he smears ointment on Shulk’s injuries. Afterwards, he threads a needle, says, “This might hurt,” and then Shulk’s brow burns as Dickson roughly stitches up the wound there.

Finally, Dickson leans back in his chair. He wears an expression of grim satisfaction. “It ain’t pretty, but it should do. You oughta head on up to bed — ”

“No.” Shulk’s chair clatters to the floor behind him. He has no awareness of having leapt to his feet, only of staring down his foster father’s unyielding expression. His mind feels far away, his body as though it were controlled by a force other than himself. Shulk’s refusal is as much a shock to him as it is to Dickson; Shulk had never really defied him before. This wasn’t like him. But he doesn’t  _ feel  _ like himself. He hadn’t thought himself capable of feeling such rage, or anger, or despair. Metal Face’s violence had unearthed something buried deep within Shulk — and he doesn’t know how to feel. 

Dickson follows Shulk’s gaze to where the Monado leans against the wall. He crooks an eyebrow. Barks out a mirthless laugh. “What? You’re gonna go after the Mechon like that? Battered and bruised and barely able to stand? No. You’ve had a long night. Rest. We’ll talk when you wake.” Flicking his cigar to the ground, he grinds it out with his heel and fixes Shulk with a stare that leaves no room for argument. 

Withstanding the Mechon is one thing — defying Dickson quite another. Whatever fight Shulk has drains from him

It’s only as he drags himself up the stairs, knuckles white around the bannister, that he notices the early-morning light creeping in through the window and tingeing the inside of their little house in grey. It’s a new day, and it brings with it a new world.

A world without Fiora. 

* 

Shulk sleeps. Restlessly, fitfully. He awakes to a darkened room and a body that screams at him. All the adrenaline has worn off, leaving him feeling worse than before. His head throbs, and an ache radiates from muscles he didn’t even know he had. 

The dark constricts Shulk’s throat, which feels raw and scratchy. He staggers to his feet and fumbles for a light with a numb arm — dimly, it occurs to him that it’s because of the Monado. He attempts to flex uncooperative fingers for a moment, but when it becomes clear that he can’t, he reaches for the ether lamp. 

Light blazes, and Shulk squints against it, his head swimming. 

Downstairs, Dickson sits in silence, hunched over the dining table, an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He glances up when Shulk enters, then jerks his head at the chair across from him.

“You look like hell,” he bites out as Shulk drops into the empty seat. Shulk responds with a stiff shrug that makes him grimace.

“Using the Monado was foolish.” 

“What was I supposed to do?” Shulk shoots back. “Dunban — ” 

“Knows the risks,” Dickson interjects. “And he knows how to fight. You can’t go throwin’ yourself at danger like that.” The implications hang heavy between them. 

It would be easier, Shulk thinks, to defend his use of the Monado had he succeeded.  _ Look what would have happened otherwise _ , he could have said.  _ See how I had no choice?  _

Succeeded in — what, though? Saving Fiora? Defeating the metal-faced Mechon? What would have been enough to justify his wielding the Monado? How far would he have had to go? Would defeating the Mechon entirely be justification enough? 

Either way, that reality is nothing but a far-fetched dream. That is not the world they live in — he had used the Monado, and achieved nothing. Fiora is still dead. The Mechon are still a threat. He hadn’t changed a thing. 

“I’m takin’ that thing back to the Weapons Development Lab first chance.” Dickson scrutinises Shulk with a knowing look that he is well-accustomed to — Dickson had always had an uncanny way of reading Shulk’s intentions. “I don’t want you gettin’ any funny ideas.” 

“Like what? Destroying the Mechon? Single-handedly turning each and every last one of them into scrap?” It’s meant to be a joke, but the words come out bitter and laced with vengeance. Despite the faint numbness in his arm, Shulk’s fingers itch for the Monado. If he could only get his hands on it -- 

“That ain’t even funny, it’s just plain reckless. You’re smarter than that, Shulk.” 

Shulk doesn’t want to be smart. ‘Smart’ hadn’t prevented the Mechon attack. ‘Smart’ hadn’t stopped Metal Face from eviscerating Fiora. Really, ‘smart’ hadn’t done them any level of good. There’s a fire burning in his chest, fierce and all-consuming, and he longs to surrender himself to it, to seize the Monado and unleash it on every last Mechon that stands in his way. 

Dickson heaves a sigh and gets to his feet. “You won’t be required in the Lab anytime soon, either. You’re no use to anyone when your mind ain’t with ya.” He offers a shrug that’s probably meant to be apologetic but comes across as inauthentic and forced. Shulk eyes his movements as he lights his cigar and steps out onto the deck. 

It’s a hollow excuse. They both know it. But Dickson doesn’t have much interest in lying to Shulk — he never had. He doesn’t want Shulk anywhere near the Monado, and he has no problems making that known. Knowing Dickson, his words were less an excuse and more a warning:  _ I’ll know about it if you come anywhere near the lab. So stay away. Keep out of trouble.  _

Shulk gnaws at his lower lip. He won’t let Dickson’s words deter him. Even if Dickson had warned all the researchers at the lab not to let Shulk in, it just meant that he would have to be stealthy. 

He would not allow anyone — not even Dickson — to stand in his way.

* 

Long days trudge past, dragging them further into this world without Fiora, and life in the colony gradually begins to resemble normal. Someone clears the wreckage from the Residential District, and the cobblestones are cleaned of Fiora’s blood and replaced with wreaths of moonflowers and dawn hydrangeas. 

Though Shulk can’t bring himself to walk that street, the resplendent colours catch his eye as he makes his way through Tranquil Square, and the sight makes his heart clench. 

He closes his eyes and turns away. In his mind, he sees Fiora, resting on her stomach in the long grass of the lake shore, plucking the topmost flower from the technicolour pile beside her. He’d admire the way the sun caught her golden hair as she’d thread the stems together to make flower crowns that she’d balance precariously on each of their heads. They had whiled away endless summer days on that shore, enjoying each other’s company and the easy laughter that came with it, never questioning anything outside the immediate moment. 

When was the last time they’d done that? He can’t recall. Desperately, he wants to go back anyway — to shake their past selves by the shoulders, warn them to stay there on that lake shore, basking in the hazy summer sun forevermore. 

Instead, he heads down to the lakeshore, alone, and sits amongst the grass, alone, and makes a shoddy flower crown from the last few dawn hydrangeas that hadn’t yet been picked.

Alone.

* 

A haphazard Homs funeral is held. There hadn’t been a body to return to the Bionis, so they make do — a service, at the lake shore, where Shulk had spent so many sun-drenched afternoons with Reyn and Fiora. It’s just as warm now, the sun beating down relentlessly, with no breeze to cool the sweat on their skin. The wound above Shulk’s eyebrow itches.

It only felt fitting that they farewell Fiora here. She should have been allowed the dignity of being laid to rest here, too. But the Mechon had taken her life and they had taken her body, and it is one final insult to her memory. A memory is all she is, now, Shulk thinks, and he wonders what it means that they can’t return her body to the Bionis. All life was born of the Bionis, and so too is all life returned to it. It is the cycle of life — but Fiora would never be able to complete it. 

Beneath it all, a small part of Shulk fears that his memory of this afternoon will end up tainting all the countless hours they had spent here before. He doesn’t want his thoughts of this place to be forever tied to the inescapable truth of her death. It ought to remain untouched. 

Further down the shore, Dunban stands apart, solemn and unyielding. It is the first that anyone has seen of him since his sister died. He had locked himself in his house since the Mechon attack, turning away all who stopped by to offer their condolences. Today, he assumes a soldier’s stance, all sharp angles and straight lines — shoulders drawn, stance resolute. 

If he grieves, he does not show it. 

If it had been anyone else, people would have flocked to Dunban’s side, offering comfort — but he had made it clear that he sought no comfort. Not even Dickson moves to be with his friend. Instead, he stands beside Shulk, fingers drumming against his leg.

He’s itching for a smoke. It would be disrespectful. Still, Shulk wishes that he would light one up anyway. It feels…  _ wrong  _ to see Dickson without a cigar. 

It feels wrong to be here, mourning the death of his best friend. Everything that Shulk had thought he’d known about life has been ripped from beneath him. Though his plans for the future had been hazy, he’d always expected — always  _ known  _ — that he would face that future with Fiora. She had been a constant in his life, always, since the first day he arrived in Colony 9, when she’d welcomed him with an easy smile and a warmth that was impossible not to like. He can hardly remember his life prior to arriving at the colony — he cannot remember a life without Fiora in it. He hadn’t ever entertained the possibility that he would have to live a life without her. The days and years seem to stretch before him, an endless span of time so great that it’s dizzying. The weight of all the life he has left to live bears down upon him, crushing the breath from his chest until he fears he might suffocate. 

It just doesn’t feel  _ fair _ , that he should get this time when she does not. 

Dickson continues drumming his hand against his thigh. Shulk longs to reach for it, nestling his hand amongst Dickson’s much larger one, where it would be safe. As a child, Shulk knew he would be safe so long as his hand was in Dickson’s. But he is a child no longer, and nothing is safe anymore. He clenches his fists, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms, and continues to watch in silence as Dunban lays a bundle of Fiora’s clothing, topped with a wreath of moonflowers, into the water. It was all he had to give. All that remained of his little sister, her life cruelly cut short by the Mechon, like her mother and father before her. Three times, Dunban had done this. Three family members, three lives lost, three bodies unable to be returned to the Bionis. 

Dunban had lost his entire family to the Mechon — and he isn’t the only one. Families and colonies alike have fallen to their might. Their lives should amount to more than this. None of them should have become fodder for the Mechon. Every last one of them deserved to live their life in full; every last one of them deserved more than a haphazard memorial service on the shores of a lake when that life came to an end. They all ought to have completed that cycle of life. 

_ Homs shouldn’t have to live in fear _ , Shulk thinks,  _ waiting around to be picked off by the Mechon.  _ Their lives should amount to more than this. Dunban might not be able to use the Monado anymore — nor would anyone expect him to — but now, Shulk knows that  _ he  _ can. He might not know how to fight, not properly, but he knows the risks. He can learn to deal with the numbness it causes, and he can learn to fight — Reyn would teach him. It wouldn’t be easy, but he doesn’t have a choice. By wielding the Monado, he could scrap each and every last Mechon, and stop this from ever happening again, to anyone. It would never be enough to make up for all the lives lost. 

But it would be a start. 

* 

Shulk goes to visit Dunban. He still isn’t taking visitors, but Shulk couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t at least  _ try  _ to pay his respects. Once he leaves the colony, there’s no guarantee he’ll ever be able to return. It’s a sobering thought.

His footsteps slow as he approaches the door. He raps at it with shaking knuckles, in the spot where the wood is worn from all the times he’d pushed it open over the years. Dunban’s house was a second home to him — he would stay whenever Dickson went away — so he’d stopped knocking years ago, but it felt wrong to just walk on in now. 

“Dunban?” Shulk’s voice falters. It’s unlikely Dunban will answer anyway. How long is appropriate to wait before leaving? Dunban clearly doesn’t want to be bothered — and Shulk doesn’t want to intrude. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he’s just considering whether to knock again or whether to go when the door creaks open. 

“Shulk,” says Dunban, his voice flat. It’s the first time Shulk has seen him, really  _ seen  _ him, since the attack, and it’s though the events have aged the poor man a decade. Tired lines crease the skin around his eyes, which are red-rimmed and weighed down by the dark circles blooming beneath them. 

Dunban steps aside and motions for Shulk to enter. “Come in.” 

At a loss for words, Shulk follows Dunban inside. His stomach has crawled into his throat, leaving him afraid to open his mouth lest his lunch makes itself known. Yet, he shouldn’t be this apprehensive at the prospect of being inside Dunban’s house. He had all but grown up here — spending lazy afternoons and long weekends hanging out with Fiora and Reyn, laughing and joking together during sleepovers in which they’d drag all the bedding downstairs and turn the lounge into one gigantic pillow fort, staying up late and curling beneath the blankets together, listening as the adults laughed together over a game of cards. The promises that they had made about how, when they themselves were old, they’d still be the best of friends. 

But that was all  _ before _ . The little cottage shouldn’t be any different — and yet, without Fiora, it seems foreign. Signs of Dunban’s grief are scattered everywhere, evident in the old family photos that adorn the table, accompanied by a suspiciously empty bottle of wine. Shards of broken crockery splinter across the floor and crunch beneath Shulk’s feet. 

Yet, the Dunban that stands across from Shulk is stoic. Unemotional. It’s as though the vast emptiness of the house had expanded around Dunban, making him seem smaller by comparison. 

In the corner, the door to Fiora’s room has been tightly shut, just as the door to their parents’ room had been. The kitchen table has space for four, with enough chairs to match. Four coat hooks dot the wall above the rack with space for four pairs of shoes. They’re all signs of how this house had been built to be a home, and that home intended to house a  _ family _ . 

But now Dunban has no family to speak of — and that lonesomeness is one Shulk knows so intimately. He knows of how  _ memories  _ of a loved one are but a pale substitute — and how even those memories, no matter how numerous or treasured, eventually fade. 

“Dunban — ” Shulk begins, speaking for the sake of saying  _ anything _ , because there are no words he can offer that will ease the weight of Dunban’s loss. 

Dunban cuts him off. “Shulk. How are you holding up?” 

It feels like a loaded question. There is no answer that Shulk can give that feels appropriate — it would be an insult to lie, and presumptuous to tell the truth, when Shulk’s grief surely must pale in comparison to Dunban’s. 

“I’m… fine,” he says eventually, knowing that it doesn’t encompass all that he feels, knowing that there are no words great enough to describe the depths of the grief that has been drowning him. “But… how are you?” 

Dunban turns away, looking out the window, though his thoughts are clearly much further away. “I will shed no tears,” he says, resolute. He describes to Shulk all the losses he has endured already — many at the Battle of Sword Valley — and all Shulk can think about is how this is not something any Homs should have to grow used to. Losing loved ones to the Mechon was far from uncommon — everyone had lost someone, or knew someone how had. Dunban, as a soldier, had lost more than most. And the resigned determination with which he talks about honouring the sacrifices they made in fighting for their friends, their family, their homes… it fuels the rage that has been smouldering within Shulk. Fiora’s death had sparked it, and the longer it burned, the stronger it got. 

Dunban turns back to Shulk. “Remember the gift of life that Fiora gave you,” he says, “and treasure it,” causing Shulk to startle as he wonders whether Dunban knew of his plans. Dunban’s house had been his last stop before the Weapons Development Lab; the thought of this being amongst his last few moments in the place he had grown up becomes another yet another ache that throbs beneath the ever-present pain of Fiora’s death. 

Guilt squirms inside him — maybe Dickson was right. Maybe Shulk  _ is  _ being foolish. It would be no exaggeration to say that he’s throwing his life away — what chance does he stand, one boy with no Defence Force training to speak of, against a whole army of Mechon? But he can’t bear the thought of just sitting around and doing nothing, as life gradually returns to normal and the memory of Fiora fades into the background before fading altogether. All the while, that metal-faced Mechon remains free to terrorise the Homs. 

No. Shulk  _ can’t  _ just sit by and let that happen. He cannot live his life burdened by regret. 

“I… I can’t say that I understand,” he tells Dunban, and this is the truth. “But… I hope to, someday.” 

“That is all I ask.” 

* 

The walk to the Military District is a surprisingly quick one. Shulk thinks he ought to take his time, etching every detail of the colony into his mind lest he never return, but he is just too anxious to get his hands on the Monado. It’s as though it’s calling to him, drawing him onto this path of revenge. He moves with haste, and doesn’t even stop to smile at Narine, who waves at him from her front garden. 

His steps slow when he reaches the Military District, but only for a moment. He cannot afford to hesitate. Besides, he has spent so much time here, either at the lab or accompanying Reyn, that nobody looks twice at him. Even inside the lab, people turn a blind eye, despite Dickson’s warnings to the contrary. 

Finally — the Monado. There it lays, cradled in its stand, that blue light pulsing softly across its surface. Shulk lifts it reverently in his hands, relishing its weight and the cool touch of its metal against his skin. It might just be his imagination, but the constant pulse of light seems to quicken in time with his heartbeat. 

Footsteps echo down the corridor. Shulk whirls around as he’s dragged back to the present. The room is clear, for now, but he doesn’t have time to waste. He can’t risk anybody discovering him with the Monado — and he  _ especially  _ can’t risk word getting back to Dickson. He slings the Monado across his back and makes a hasty exit, then cuts through the back alleys of the colony before making his way up to Outlook Park. 

He crests the hill just on dusk, and as he stands in the golden light of the dying sun, his heart clenches as he looks out at a view of the colony he last shared with Fiora the day she died. 

A short distance away, near the fence railing, stands Reyn, who is also staring out at the colony. The knot of tension in Shulk’s chest loosens slightly. Since the Mechon attack, the Defence Force had kept Reyn so busy that Shulk had hardly seen him. It’s a comfort to see a familiar face, though — one that wasn’t Dickson, who kept looking at Shulk with an expression that was, somehow, simultaneously pitying and chastising. 

“Hey,” he says as he stands beside his friend. “Thanks for meeting me. …Got away from the Colonel alright, then?” 

Reyn chuckles. “Exchanged shifts with Andreas, actually. No chance in hell he would’ve before, but…” 

Reyn trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish his sentence for Shulk to understand. He’d experienced it too, the softer way in which the residents of the colony had treated him since the attack. People would sympathise with their loss while simultaneously, quietly, grateful that it hadn’t been  _ them.  _

Shulk and Reyn briefly exchange pleasantries, asking after each other’s wellbeing; Shulk relays the conversation that he had just had with Dunban. Then, before he can hesitate, he comes right out with it: “I’ve made a decision.” 

No point in beating around the bush. He was going to invite Reyn to join him, but even if he didn’t or couldn’t, it would be a comfort to know that at least one person knew where he had disappeared to. So he talks of how he’ll pursue the Mechon, and destroy every last one of them, and — 

— Reyn…  _ laughs _ …? 

Ice chills Shulk’s heart. He had prepared himself for the possibility of Reyn not being able to accompany him — he had his Defence Force training, after all — but he had not prepared for mockery. Not from his best friend. Without Reyn’s support, the whole endeavour seems gargantuan and foolish. 

And yet —  _ make the Mechon pay _ , insists that ever-present voice in his head, the one that had made itself known from the first moment Fiora’s blood had dripped from Metal Face’s claws, and had only ever gotten louder since. 

So focused on his internal monologue as he is, Shulk almost misses what Reyn says next:

“I never thought you’d be the one to say it.” 

“…So… you agree?” 

“‘Course, man. I’m just surprised you came out with it first!”

Relief floods through Shulk, thawing the chill that had been creeping through his veins. He could laugh. 

“You thought I’d try talk you out of it!” He  _ knows  _ what Reyn had been expecting Shulk to say, because Shulk had imagined all the same arguments himself — coming from Dickson, from Dunban, and even from Reyn. Though the words may have differed slightly, the core message was the same: “’That’s not what Fiora would want’.” Hell, Dunban had all but said the same to Shulk just hours before. 

A small part of Shulk can’t help but think,  _ the only person who  _ truly  _ knows what Fiora would want… is Fiora. And if she weren’t dead, this wouldn’t be a decision any of them would have to make in the first place.  _

He pushes that thought aside. There’s no point dwelling on what could have been. Instead, he divulges what has been keeping him awake during sleepless nights. He tells Reyn of the voice in his head, the one insisting on exacting revenge and refusing to take  _ no  _ for an answer. Shulk had mulled it over as he’d watched shadows lengthen and deepen over his walls until day eventually broke and melted them away. The amount of thought he had put into this probably wasn’t healthy — but anything was better than reliving Fiora’s death on endless repeat. 

As Shulk finishes his explanation, he eyes Reyn expectantly, apprehensive about his friend’s response. 

Reyn remains uncharacteristically silent for a brief moment. “That doesn’t sound like you at all,” he says, concern lacing his voice. “Sure it ain’t my voice in there?” 

“Might be,” Shulk agrees. “It’s a bit of a loudmouth!” 

Laughter, unbidden, bursts forth, and for the briefest of moments, the leaden weight that had been bearing down on Shulk since that fateful night lightens. The laughter sounds strange to his ears and sits uncomfortably in his mouth — in such a short time, it had become such a foreign and unreachable concept — but despite it, it’s still good. For even a fleeting moment, Shulk feels like himself again, and a renewed hope surges through him as he departs from Colony 9, the Monado on his back and Reyn by his side. 


End file.
